


Impossible Things

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: (i think it's light), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Happily Ever After, Impossible Tasks, Kinda?, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Prunella - Freeform, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18662836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: Patrick's nothing more than a village boy known for being rather handsome. He's loved by (mostly) everyone and he leads a decent life. Until he steals a plum from the wrong tree.Tricked into angering a witch, Patrick earns the chance to keep his life by completing three impossible tasks. He's ready to face them and go home but someone keeps showing up-- someone who offers help on one condition. A man of magic and mystery; the very same man who saved Patrick's life from the witch.<>"Give me a kiss and I’ll fulfill your task, no more strings attached.”





	Impossible Things

**Author's Note:**

> I got it done on time. Yay! (Some editing sacrifices were made. I did a quick read through but I apologize in advance for any mistakes!)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who had a hand in creating this challenge! I suggest everyone go check out the rest of the fairytales, they're sure to be amazing!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for checking this out! I hope you're ready for my attempt at something fun and fairytale based, haha!

Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about Patrick’s town isn’t that it’s home to a terrible witch or that the rest of the kingdom’s overcome by rumors of the hidden village— caught between hills like a coin in a well— but, rather, that Patrick is the most handsome young man in the land.

Or, rather, the most extraordinary thing is that despite how many times it’s been said, Patrick refuses to believe it.  Despite the suitors that line up outside his work in the evening, offering to walk him home if only for the chance to see those pale blue eyes for a moment longer, he doesn't believe it. Despite the younger girls watching from a distance, giggling with each other and blushing over how kind his smile is, and despite how the sun glances away from his head of red-blonde hair, ashamed of how much brighter the boy beneath it is, he refuses to believe. Despite it all, he frowns and insists that it’s all chance.

“Besides,” he tells his friends when they tease him about such things, “not everyone in the town likes me.”

He means people like the boys he went to school with, the ones who sneered at his musical tendencies and scoffed at his refusal to join in on their mock sword fights. People like the boys who call him insulting names— out of jealousy or true dislike, the answer depending on who's asked. People like the boys who watch the suitors with a sharp glint in their eye and the boys who lead the girls away, the ones who whisper and gossip and scheme.

On his way back home from work one night, Patrick passes by such a group. The sky hangs onto the last shades of the day as he races back, tonight’s suitor turned away after a vulgar remark.

Patrick is alone when the group of boys comes to taunt him.

“Patrick!” The largest in the group, Robert, calls out as Patrick walks past their spot by the fountain and trees. Patrick would rather avoid them entirely; at the same time, he’d rather not give them the satisfaction of hiding. “Alone, are we? Is it humbling?”

“Not quite as much as your compliments, Robbie,” Patrick says with a sigh. He doesn’t intend to say more, content with ignoring them the way he always does.

But then Robert appears before him, blocking the path with his crew of cruel friends behind him. Patrick sighs again. Robert’s larger than him, broader and stronger from self-imposed labor and training, but Patrick’s had a rather long day and he can’t work up the energy to be afraid.

“You always do the same thing. Everyday,” Robert says, making it sound like an honest complaint. “You walk to work and let everyone fawn over you. Then, when you’ve had enough, you walk back home. It’s so boring.”

“Well, I’m sorry my life isn’t up to your entertainment standards,” Patrick says, resting a hand on his hip as he leans back to gaze at Robert. “I’ll take it into consideration, I swear. For now, though, may I pass?”

“Sure,” Robert says, pursing his lips and trying to smirk at the same time. “I wouldn’t want to keep you around for too long. But…”

“But?” Patrick prompts tiredly, already exasperated with Robert’s games. Robert’s grin and grows and he points at something over Patrick’s shoulder.

“But first I want you to bring me that fruit.”

Patrick turns, head ringing from the challenging cackles of the boys now behind him. He frowns at their raucous noise and, then, he frowns at the tree. 

It’s nothing spectacular but in that way that all trees are equally spectacular. On its own, near the town center, it stands proudly with lush leaves and dark wood, violet blooms of flowers dripping from the ends. It’s nothing Patrick hasn’t walked past a dozen times before but, tonight, the last glimpse of sun glares off the plump low-hanging plums in sparkling glances of reds and blues, making the pickings seem more tempting than Patrick’s ever noticed them to be before. His mouth waters, embarrassingly so, but he shrugs it off with small scoff in Robert’s direction.

“Alright, then,” he says. “Wait here.” 

As Patrick nears the tree, his hunger grows until it’s an uncomfortable pit in his stomach, until it’s not hunger but a sense of caution. Walking quickly, kicking aside rocks and fallen leaves, Patrick senses rather than sees Robert and his crew fade into the distance behind him. If not for his pride, Patrick would turn back.

All too soon, he reaches the tree with cheeks pink from the evening’s warmth and skin cool from something he can only call the aura of the fruit before him. It wraps around him, tugging him closer, and his eyes reach to view the plum nearest him. He bites his lip and lifts up to his toes, grasping for the fruit and—

A bird with thick black wings, something not quite raven or crow, surges from its hidden place in the leaves, circling Patrick with vicious caws. Patrick jumps back with a yelp, the uncertainty in his gut growing when the bird lands on a lower branch, dark eyes watching him. Waiting for him.

In the distance, Robert laughs and the sound is colder than any bird could be. Patrick shakes his head and looks away from the bird, fear giving way to pride and, teeth gritted and eyes hard, Patrick plucks the plum. 

What comes next is not the weight of the fruit in his hand or the continuation of Robert’s jeers. It’s the sudden black of night, darker than darkness, and the piercing cries of a crow. It’s the plummet of earth disappearing from beneath his feet, the rush of crackling heat across his skin, the choked scream in his throat that’s too afraid to leave his mouth.

What happens next is Patrick collapsing on a stone cold floor, shocks of pain shooting through his limbs. Patrick gasps and whines and, slowly, he opens his eyes.

“So you’re the boy who stole my plum.”

The girl is the first thing Patrick sees and hears, her voice as smooth as sunset and her dark eyes flickering with twice the flame. Black curls drape across her shoulders in a mockery of decency, feathers the same shade adorning her neck and dress. Patrick fails to answer, eyes flitting around the room as she laughs.

“Perhaps they don’t warn the children the way they used to,” she says, pointed nails tapping at the plum now in her hand. “Don’t you know better than to steal from a witch?”

_ A witch _

“Bebe,” he breathes, a name he hasn’t thought of since childhood taunts and fairy tales. He scrambles away but he shakes too much to get too far. “You’re… You’re…”

“What?” Bebe asks, her sharp smirk matching the cruel darkness of this large stone room, the carved throne she sits upon the only dash of color. “A witch? Real? About to kill you?”

Patrick’s jaw drops but no words escape his lips, terror reshaping the sounds into desperate pants. 

“Or curse you,” Bebe continues. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Wait, no, please,” Patrick begs, lifting his hands in defense. “I didn’t know the tree was yours. It was just a stupid prank! The other boys told me… I had no idea!”

Bebe stands, her shadow longer than it should be as it falls across Patrick.

“Yes, but you were the one who picked the plum,” she says, sounding truly sorry— or, perhaps, bored. “And my tree’s not ordinary. It bears my magic so to harm it is to harm me. You weren’t taking my fruit— you were taking part of my magic. And that simply cannot go unpunished.”

She raises her hand and Patrick recoils, still trying to scurry away from her.

“I swear, I didn’t know!” He cries as she draws closer, a golden light burning in her hand. “I’ll make it up to you, I’ll make it right. I’ll do anything, please, just—”

“I am sorry,” Bebe says, now towering over him. “But I must—”

“Wait.”

From the shadows of the doorway, a separate voice calls out. Certain and soft at once, the word causes Bebe to stop and Patrick to turn.

The man who enters the room is like none Patrick’s ever seen, feathers like Bebe’s clinging to his clothes and skin in shades of starry night. Swirls of color and black ink weave patterns across this man’s skin, tangling with feathers and dancing beneath the dim light. Dark hair falls across his face and into piercing brown eyes, eyes that look like magic. Eyes that look at Patrick.

“Yes?” Bebe asks, a hint of silver on the edge of her voice. The man’s eyes pull up from Patrick but their burn lingers.

“He said he’ll do anything in exchange for his life,” he says, no emotion in his tone. “Wouldn’t you rather a servant than a corpse?”

Patrick’s blood runs cold at his words, though he can’t say which ones he fears most. To serve a witch or die by her hand?

Slowly, Bebe backs down.

“You suggest I let him live?” She asks. The man doesn’t look away from her but Patrick feels vulnerable, exposed, all the same.

“I suggest you give him a chance.”

The man’s words enter the air like a swarm of butterflies and Bebe narrows her eyes as if examining the worth of each one. Moments pass and Patrick doesn’t dare breathe, doesn’t dare turn from the scene.

At last, Bebe laughs— a harsh sound that scorches any other.

“You just think he’s pretty,” she says, albeit with less malice in her voice than before. 

“Or I just know how you like your pets.”

Bebe considers this, smiling wickedly with a hand on her hip. She looks down at Patrick and he shrivels away, hoping to disappear. 

“What say you?” She asks. “What deal are you hoping to make?”

Patrick’s tongue, stiff and dry, struggles to form words just like his eyes struggle to pull free from the man at the door. 

“Three tasks,” he says, at last, each word a plea. “Three favors. I’ll fulfill them, no matter what they are, and then my debt is paid.”

“And then you go free,” Bebe says, a smile in her eyes. “And should you fail?”

Patrick swallows, his breaths heavy in his chest. “If I fail, then my fate is yours to decide.”

Bebe grins.

“Very well,” she says, lifting the plum to her lips. “I accept.”

She bites into the flesh of the fruit, teeth sharp and glinting. Magic flies from the plum and Patrick can only watch the halo of shadow and night settling across the room. 

“Shall we begin now?” Bebe asks. 

“Yes,” Patrick says, the word like ice on his tongue. “We shall.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

There were plenty of tasks Patrick imagined receiving but this, a command to fill a bucket with water, was not one of them. Still, he accepts the tools and hurries outside, the wind filling his hair and sweeping it about his head. 

As he walks in the direction of the river he’d been sent to, breathing deeply as if to lose all trace of Bebe’s dull and dirty castle, Patrick tries to place where he is. The same mountains rise in the distance, the same sun peeks over the horizon as if to taunt him about how much time has passed since Robert’s prank. A night— perhaps more— and Patrick’s gut twists in anger and humiliation each time he thinks of Robert’s words.

_ “I wouldn’t want to keep you around for too long,”  _ Robert had said. And then he sent Patrick to pluck from a witch’s tree.

So, it seems, Robert’s plan had worked. Though all seems familiar, the village is gone and missing. Patrick’s home is lost and he knows serving the witch is the only way to find his way back.

When he gets home, he’s hitting Robert right in that horrible mouth of his. Or maybe he’ll send him off to the witch as a thank you present for sparing his life.

Eventually, Patrick’s broken from these red-hazed thoughts by the rhythmic rushing of water, the roar of a river just out of reach. Bucket in his hands and hope in his heart, Patrick rushes ahead. The sooner he fulfills this task, the sooner he can go home. And nothing can stop him.

Except…

Except that he spots another bird with black wings, grounding beneath a tree. It’s hopping and falling with something tied around its beak and wings. It turns and, again, this one watches Patrick.

The rush of the river calls. The bucket grows heavy in his hands.

Without hesitation, Patrick leaves the bucket and goes to the bird’s side, kneeling slowly so not to scare it.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he says, frowning softly at the chain weaving through its wings and around its beak. He reaches out, barely brushing it before the bird hops away. “It’s alright! I won’t hurt you.”

Whether by his words or voice, the bird pauses and then hops over, head cocked to the side as Patrick takes hold of the chain. It doesn’t seem afraid of humans but that only causes Patrick to frown deeper.

“I bet those witches did this. I bet that’s how they get those stupid feathers,” he mutters as he works at untying the bird. It’s tedious and the bird flinches every few moments but Patrick keeps it calm with soft humming and gentle words.

“There!” He says, undoing the final knot. “You’re free!”

Patrick pockets the chain, grinning as the bird spreads its wings and shakes them out with a soft cawing sound. He laughs, standing as the bird flies up to the tree. It lands on a branch, watching Patrick, and Patrick smiles.

“Don’t get caught again,” he says, heading back to the path and grabbing his bucket. “A witch just might send you on stupid errands if you do.”

The bird’s cries follow him as he continues back towards the river, the sounds quickly fading out in favor of the water rushing through dirt and rock. At last, he comes across the current Bebe had instructed him to draw from.

It rests at the bottom of a cliff twice the size of his home, a steep drop of rock and mud sinking into the water at the base, the crystal shade of it reflecting the sky and clouds hovering above. Patrick pauses at the edge of the drop, frowning at the lack of clear pathways down. He tightens his hold on the bucket and wanders around the edge, back and forth and back, before sighing. If he moves the bucket to the crook of his elbow, he can climb down and then back up. It’ll be a hassle— and he’s not one for too much physical activity, to begin with— but as far as witches’ tasks go, it’s still rather mild.

So, bucket hanging from his arm, sleeves rolled up, he sits on the edge of the cliff and tries to convince himself to start the climb down. He’s just pressed his toes into one dubious looking foothold, twisting to face the rocks, when something takes hold of his arm and yanks him back up. Patrick cries out and the bucket rolls away from him as he falls, chin scraping along the ground as the stranger places a foot atop the bucket, stilling its motions.

“What on earth?” Patrick asks, rubbing the small bruise sure to form on his chin. “Why would you—”

He looks up and meets dark brown eyes, dark feathery hair, and the rest of his words fail to leave his throat. 

“It’s you,” he says, shoving himself to his feet. “The other witch.”

The man’s lips twitch into a small smirk as he picks up the bucket. 

“Apprentice, actually. You can also consider me the one who convinced Bebe to let you live,” he says, his voice a mere rustle of words. “But, hey, if that’s too long, you can call me Pete.”

“Pete.” Patrick tests the name with a frown, his mind trying and failing to connect such a simple name with the man before him. “Alright. I do appreciate what you did but I do still have a task to complete before I’m really free. So if you pass over the bucket…” Patrick holds out his hand, staring at his own fingers so to ignore Pete’s curious gaze.

“Of course,” Pete says, swinging the bucket in his hand. “After you tell me how you intend to bring the bucket back up with you.”

“What?” Patrick asks, hand falling back to his side. “The same way I’ll bring it down— hook the handle around my arm and climb.”

“And spill half the contents out, no doubt,” Pete says with a rather annoying tutting sound. “She asked for you to  _ fill  _ the bucket. If you come back with so much as a drop missing, she’ll say you’ve failed and that your life is hers.”

Patrick’s stomach drops with a sick sensation, his breaths pausing in his throat.

“That’s…” He looks back out at the water, silver and sunlit, and swallows. “I’d say that’s not fair but I suppose I am working with a witch.”

“Don’t tell me you expected it to be easy,” Pete says. Patrick glares at him, too frustrated to consider fear.

“Maybe I expected to have a chance,” he snaps, heat filling his cheeks. “What am I supposed to do? Accept death? Get cursed?”

“If it makes you feel any better, Bebe’s far more likely to curse you. And she’s right— you are pretty. I wouldn’t mind you sticking around,” he says in a light tone, a tone that could be joking if not for the nausea and terror piling in Patrick’s mind. Patrick crosses his arms and stares at the ground. 

Maybe this is part of the trick. Maybe Pete’s supposed to scare him away before he completes the task. But then why would he argue on Patrick’s behalf if he was only going to sabotage him? Lips pressed together into a thin line, Patrick glances back at the water. Hopeless, he sighs.

“I still have to try,” he says, at last. “I can’t do anything else.”

“Well,” Pete says, stilling the bucket’s motions and taking a step closer to Patrick. Patrick steps away, pausing only when his heel backs against the cliff’s edge. “I have magic. I can do it for you.”

Patrick blinks. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” he says. “You’re a witch.”

“Apprentice,” Pete corrects. “I’ll get your water for you, it’s no big deal.”

“Sure,” Patrick says. “And then I’ll be indebted to you.”

“Only a little,” Pete says. “How about a kiss? Give me a kiss and I’ll fulfill your task, no more strings attached.”

Again, Patrick feels empty of any guard beneath Pete’s gaze, unadorned and exposed by his eyes. The wind stops blowing as Pete speaks; the clouds pause and watch the scene.

“You’re a  _ witch _ ,” Patrick says with a low voice. “How can I trust you?”

“Because you don’t know me,” Pete says, though something strange flickers in his eyes. “Bebe taught me my magic. Don’t imagine that means I’m anything like her. So? Do we have a deal?”

“No. No, are you crazy?” Patrick says, his head spinning as he rejects Pete. “Apprentice or witch or anything else, you’re exactly right. I don’t know you. And I’m not so willing to take any more chances with my life.”

He reaches for the bucket but Pete pulls it out of the way, leaving Patrick stumbling forward foolishly.

“Strange,” Pete says. “You’re strange. But I suppose that isn’t necessarily bad.”

Patrick watches as Pete sets the bucket down, a hand held out to keep Patrick from taking it once more. Brown eyes glow gold and he extends another hand towards the river, fingers trembling like twigs in the wind.

Slowly, certainly, water fills the bucket. Clouds and sky fall into the wood, filling with the soft dancing noises of water coming from someplace unseen. Patrick gasps but Pete seems to hold his breath, eyes half-lidded until he pulls back, water now to the brim of the bucket.

“There,” he says, standing back and nodding for Patrick to take it. “It’s from the river and, look, it’s full.”

Patrick hesitates to grab the bucket’s handle, watching Pete with wary eyes.

“I didn’t join any deal with you. You didn’t get any kiss and you still won’t have any,” he says cautiously. “You knew that. Why would you still help?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Pete says, turning away. “But I do wish you luck.”

The last thing Patrick sees of Pete is his kind smile fading into the shadows of the trees.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick doesn’t see Pete again until he’s back at Bebe’s lair that evening, arms sore from carrying the bucket back down the path and legs weary from the walk. He wanders through the castle’s empty corridors, steps slow so not to spill a drop. At last, he shoves open a large wooden door and steps back into the throne room.

Bebe raises an eyebrow from her place in the throne, Pete leaning against the wall behind her with bored eyes. Patrick grows dizzy from their gazes but walks inside anyway. Bebe won’t hurt him unless he fails. And why should she consider this a failure? 

She stands, darkness falling behind her like a cloak, and moves to gaze down at the bucket.

“Impossible,” she breathes, dipping a finger into the water, disturbing the cool stillness. “You shouldn’t have been able to reach the top again, not without losing the water or bucket.” Her eyes turn on Patrick, hard and cold. “How did you do this? Who helped you?”

“No one, “ Patrick says, blinking quickly to keep himself from seeing Pete’s reaction. “And does it matter how I did it? The task is done— you never said how, just that it should be finished.”

“Very well,” Bebe says with narrowed eyes, taking hold of Patrick’s wrist. She pulls him from the room, his feet stumbling and tripping over every cracked stone and step as she leads him through the halls. “Your next task shall be tomorrow. I suggest you grant yourself some rest.”

With her last statement, she shoves Patrick through an open door. He falls forward onto his hands and knees, turning back in time to watch as she closes the heavy cell door. A cell, Patrick knows by the stone slat for a bed and the bars across the windows— the chains from the walls and the sound of a lock clicking into place.

Darkness envelops him and he swallows down a fearful sob.

With nothing else to do, Patrick climbs onto the stone bed, grateful, at least, for the night’s warmth leaking in through the window. He taps his hands against the walls and bed, eyes shut and pretending he’s back home playing with music and melodies. He can’t sleep, can’t fathom the thought, so he distracts himself with the sound.

His rhythm, however, is cut off hours later by a sudden rapping at the door. Patrick sits up, eyes open and hands curled into fists against the stone. He has no time to prepare a response or threat, though, before Pete opens the door and lets himself inside, a cup of water in his hand.

“It’s from the river,” he says, following Patrick’s gaze with an amused grin. “The river water is the best— that’s why she had you fetch it. But I thought it only fair you receive some, too. As part of your victory over the first task.”

“Because I had so much to do with that,” Patrick says, though he takes the cup from Pete anyway. He knows he should question the drink further but, with nothing given to him throughout the day, his mouth is dry and his stomach aches from emptiness. He brings the cup to his lips, water passing into his throat. It is good, refreshing with something sweet and delicate beneath the crisp coolness. He moans lightly at the taste, blushing when Pete snorts at the sound.

“I thought you might like it,” he says, taking the cup back. “And you’re welcome, by the way. For the water  _ and  _ for the aid.”

“I still don’t know why you did that,” Patrick says, leaning towards Pete with furrowed brows. “Shouldn’t you be on Bebe’s side?”

“I typically try not to pick sides in these sorts of things,” Pete admits, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “But that gets rather boring after a few years.”

Patrick considers this, frowning. “You know, in all the rumors of the village witch, they never mentioned you. Children were always warned about Bebe. I don’t remember ever hearing about someone like you.”

“Would it have made a difference if you had? Would it have made you more or less afraid of the dark?” Pete asks, his smile turning wry and his eyes fading into a shade Patrick can’t name. He takes a breath, shoving away from the wall with a shake of his head. “Bebe’s a witch and she’s been around for far longer than I’ve been. I’m sure that’s given her time to become as infamous as she’d like.”

“Yes, but, still, someone must have seen you before. Someone from all those horror stories about kidnappings and curses,” Patrick says. “Who are you?”

Pete keeps silent, his eyes fixed on the corner of Patrick’s makeshift bed, until, at last, he crosses the room to stand by Patrick’s side. He takes the now empty cup from him, eyes on Patrick, and heads towards the door again.

“You should rest before tomorrow’s task,” he says. “You magicless creatures are so fragile, after all. I’d hate to see exhaustion do you in.”

He smiles before leaving, a smile that looks as if he’d been smiling the whole time.

A smile that follows Patrick into his dreams.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“It’s morning. Time for your next task.” 

Patrick wakes to Bebe’s voice echoing through the room, an uncomfortable sound that drags him from sleep like a cat pulling a mouse of its hole by the tail. He stretches, only realizing that he’s in a different room when his eyes open and he spots the desk and chair pushed against the place where his bed had been in the other cell.

“It’s rather cozy, isn’t it?” Bebe asks as Patrick rubs his eyes and pushes himself to his feet in the smaller room. 

“Just like home,” Patrick says, walking to the desk. “What’s this?”

“Your next task,” Bebe says, gesturing to the pens and papers scattered across the desk’s surface. “They say the pen is mightier than the sword so that shall be your challenge. Write me something stronger than a sword.”

“What?” Patrick pulls back, gazing at her with bewildered eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

Bebe’s grin is cruel and Patrick bites his tongue, not wanting to grant her further satisfaction. 

“Don’t forget that you made this deal. I’ll return when night falls. I’ll expect you to be done.” And, with that, she leaves. Patrick doesn’t bother following, the click of the lock causing him to jump. With nothing else to do, he sits and he tries to write.

He tries for hours. 

He scribbles lines across the top of the papers, lines that sound nice together or come from some childhood tale, but none of them carry the sheen that Bebe is so clearly looking for. He’s to write something stronger than a sword but all of his words are weak, made hollow by the shaking hand and fear behind them.

_ I don’t ever want to meet you _

_ It’s just love, selfish love _

_ Beg the ceiling for forgiveness _

They’re good and he’s proud of more than a few but…

But they aren’t stronger than a sword. They’re words he wants to sing, not scream; they’re sounds he wants to hear, not feel. He’s not drawing upon anything other than his desperation to beat this challenge but that same desperation soaks up his creativity, burns up his inspiration, and he’s left with nothing more than thoughts he’s already had a thousand times before. The only thing personal about these is his shadow falling across them.

Still, he tries, drawing upon the story-telling style his father once taught him, minimal emotions and impersonal characters dancing across the page as if to taunt his fruitless attempts. Slowly, he draws out confessions and fears but these, too, refuse to reveal themselves the way he needs.

When the door opens, Patrick tosses his pen down and buries his face in defeat.

“Fine, I give up,” he says into his hands, back tense as he awaits a spell to strike him.

Silence. And, then—

“Well, that’s disheartening,” Pete says. “You've got a few more moments left before she returns. At least put up a fight until then.”

“You,” Patrick snaps, dropping his hands and turning to glare at Pete. “You have no right to taunt me.”

“Even when I’ve brought you dinner?” Pete asks, setting a plate of food before Patrick on the desk. “Should I have aimed for lunch?”

“You should have just left me alone,” Patrick says, crossing his arms though his eyes linger on the plate. He stares down at the paper instead, still failing to fully ignore the temptation. Finally, after spotting a smirk from Pete, he sighs and gives in, digging into the food with a cautious but grateful slowness. “I don’t understand how you can be so cavalier about all this. You live with a witch who curses and kills people. I’ve no reason to trust someone who helps her.”

“And here I thought I’ve been helping you,” Pete says, mimicking Patrick by crossing his arms. Patrick raises an eyebrow at him, allowing the silence to grow until Pete looks away. “I didn’t choose to be her apprentice, if that helps. I was like you, years ago. A child who wanted a plum and didn’t think the stories of the witch were real. I wasn’t smart enough to strike a deal and she wasn’t cruel enough to kill someone so young. And, so, she raised me, instead. Bebe taught me magic, but don’t believe that I’m on her side. I’m as much a captive as you, if not more.”

Patrick pauses as Pete speaks, eyes wide and mouth parted in what would be a gasp if he could remember how to breathe. Pete, too, falls quiet and lets his arms drop to the side, suddenly so much more human in Patrick’s eyes; suddenly so much younger, so much smaller.

“Pete, I’m sorry, I—”

“It was years ago. It doesn’t matter now,” Pete says, waving a hand through the air as if shoving the subject aside. He looks over Patrick’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed at the pages. “What is she having you do today?”

Patrick licks his lips and debates pursuing the original topic of Pete’s origin but decides against it.

“Write something stronger than a sword,” he quotes, leaning back in his chair. “It’s absolutely impossible, Pete. I mean, sure, perhaps someone else could do it but I don’t think that way. My mind is nothing but music and words are, well. I just don’t think I can do what she wants.”

Pete reaches for the papers, leaning over Patrick as he reads through each one, painfully silent even as Patrick’s heart pounds against his chest for a reason he dare not name.

“I can do it,” Pete whispers, at last, his voice nothing but a hesitant hush. “I can write it for you.”

“Really?” Patrick asks, breathing again now that Pete’s pulled away. “You can?”

“I know her ways. Of course, I can,” he says. He smiles but Patrick imagines he sees something else beneath it, something fake or pained. “Though, I could probably do it even quicker if you grant me a kiss. Do you think I can get one today?”

Patrick scowls, turning away and lifting a pen.

“I don’t appreciate you making fun of me. If you’re not going to help, then—”

Pete plucks the pen from Patrick’s fingers and steals a piece of paper at the same time, turning to press the sheet against the wall as he scribbles dozens of words in the time it takes for Patrick to blink. Lines appear beneath his pen as if he’s merely willing them into existence, his eyes distant as if he’s not seeing the ink and paper but, rather, some distant thought Patrick can’t hope to imagine. He writes for only a moment but the page fills, flooding itself with words and ideas. 

He reaches the bottom and, then, he disappears.

“Pete!” Patrick cries out, falling from his chair as he lunges for the place Pete had been. All that’s left, however, are the pen and paper. Patrick collects them both, standing in time for the door to fling open again.

“Have you finished?” Bebe asks, storming towards him. Patrick waits but then passes the paper over.

“Yes,” he says, hoping she doesn’t hear the tremble in his words. “I wrote something stronger than a sword.”

Bebe snatches the paper from him, eyes narrowing as she scans over each word. Patrick feels his own heart pause its beating as he awaits her verdict, his imagination burning his mind as it wonders what the paper says.

“You’ll stay here for tonight,” Bebe says, shoving the paper back at him as her smile falls into a horrible glare. “I don’t know how you’ve survived so long but, mark my words, the last task won’t be so simple. You’ll not best me again.”

Bebe turns and leaves again; Patrick collapses against the wall, breathing as if he’d been trapped underwater the whole time she’d been in the room. He allows himself a few moments for his heart rate to return to a comfortable pace and, then, he tries to sleep. 

It’s not an easy task. In fact, it may be the most difficult yet.

Unlike the last cell, this one’s floor is uneven and cold. The desk and chair take up most of the space and he has no choice but to curl into a ball in the corner. Corners of stone dig into his side and the eerie sound of scuttling creatures carry through the walls. Through the one window, moonlight shines into his face, keeping him from fully relaxing into the dark. 

And thinking of the dark only leads to thinking of Pete. Pete, with his sorry past and hurting grin, with his teasing and his aid. Pete, a witch’s captive helping Patrick to escape without giving a reason why. 

Pete doesn’t come. 

Patrick sits up, muscles groaning at the action, and reaches for the paper that had fallen to the ground, Pete’s words seeming to glow under the starlight streaming in. With nothing better to do, Patrick reads.

_ … I’ve got a feeling inside that I can’t domesticate. It doesn’t want to live in a cage, a feeling that I can’t housebreak. And I’m yours— until the earth starts to crumble and the heavens roll away. I’m struggling to exist with you and without you…  _

_ … I’m sifting through sand, looking for pieces of broken hourglass. Trying to put it all back— put it back together— as if the time had never passed. I know I should walk away but I just want to let you break my brain. And I can’t seem to get a grip, no matter how I live with it…  _

Patrick’s heart throbs with each word, pinning Pete’s past to the emotion even as his mind fights against the pain certain to be found there. But even without knowing the reason behind Pete’s cries for freedom, his fight against being caged or broken, the page calls out to Patrick. It hooks into his soul, tugging him in with breathtaking words and heartstopping lines, breaking into him like he’s the hourglass waiting to be fixed, waiting to bring Pete away from this life of captivity and pain.

He presses the page to his chest, a melody already forming alongside each of Pete’s words. He curls back up and lets Pete’s page comfort him, hold him.

He’s only shutting his eyes for a moment, just imagining each word in Pete’s voice; he doesn’t mean to fall asleep but, somehow, that night, he dreams of Pete.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into with the last task but, by the gleam in Bebe’s eyes as she thrusts him outside, it can’t be anything good. He circles around and glances back at the castle, shuddering at the obscure shapes in the windows and shadows but staring at them anyway. Does that one have feathers sticking out from its shoulders? Is he insane or does this one seem to have brown eyes? Is it the right height? The right build? 

Why isn’t Pete joining him?

And why is Patrick waiting so long for someone he barely knows?

With a slight huff, Patrick turns and begins his trek towards… towards wherever Bebe’s path leads.  _ Follow the path _ , she’d said,  _ it’ll lead you there.  _ He’d been hoping for a bit more direction than that but it seems he’ll simply have to trust the dirt path leading towards the opposite way of the river. It extends towards the nearest mountains, the edge of the road cradled between two hills before weaving up. It’s not too long a walk but that only sets Patrick further on edge.

As he nears the first cluster of tall trees and the road starts to ascend, he hums to himself in some small attempt to keep calm. It’s a slower tune, a melancholic sound, but it keeps him distracted until he reaches the place where the trees turn white and the sky disappears behind their impossible branches and leaves. He pauses, a note caught in his throat, and stares at the uncertainty of the path ahead. Winding behind trees wider than he, taller than any flame and bright enough to blind, it disappears into light. He shields his eyes but they burn, only the dirt beneath his feet safe to gaze upon.

Slowly, he prepares to take a step forward—

—only to have hands at his shoulders, pulling him back.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pete asks when Patrick turns, a fire like no other blazing in his eyes as they scan over Patrick, searching for wounds-- searching for harm. Patrick’s skin tingles under his gaze but he pays it no mind.

“My last task,” he says, both exasperation and relief evident in his voice. “Bebe told me to visit her sister, another witch named Rexha, and steal something from her. She told me to follow this path.”

“You can’t,” Pete says before Patrick’s through speaking. 

Patrick blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You  _ can’t _ ,” Pete says again, more emphasis behind his words. “Rexha’s stronger than Bebe, that’s why Bebe won’t steal it herself.”

“I’ve never heard of her, though,” Patrick says, frowning.

“Because she hates everyone. She’s isolated herself, aside from a few captives, and kills anyone who dares to go to her. That’s why there are no rumors or stories— no one who comes close to her survives,” Pete says and Patrick swears he can see Rexha’s light reflecting in his eyes. “Not even Bebe or I could try. She’s put an enchantment on her territory that inhibits all other magic users. So, so if you go… If you go, I can’t help you.”

Pete’s voice grows smaller at the end, nearly disappearing into the air before Patrick catches it. It’s so soft, so tender, Patrick’s certain he’s misheard.

“What would you have me do?” He asks slowly. “Continue to play Bebe’s game? Fail and let her kill me?”

Pete flinches but stands his ground, shaking his head and reaching for Patrick with hands that never make their landing. 

“She won’t kill you. I can keep her from killing you,” he says. “I can keep you safe if you stay here and that’s something I can’t promise if you do this. Patrick, Rexha will  _ kill  _ you!”

“And Bebe will make me like you and that’s just as good as dead!” Patrick shouts, stepping away. “You didn’t have this choice when you were younger and I’m sorry for that, I am. But I don’t want to live my life stuck as some witch’s captive. God, Pete, I want freedom and if there’s even the smallest chance… I refuse to give that up.”

Patrick steps back into the light, warmth surrounding him as Pete stares with eyes twice as bright.

“Fine,” Pete says, eyes still on Patrick’s. “Fine.”

And he follows Patrick into Rexha’s land. 

There’s no obvious change as Patrick might have expected, no dulling of Pete’s eyes or disappearance of his inked skin. Instead, he simply sighs and stands taller than before.

“You don’t have to come,” Patrick says in a hushed voice. Pete smiles but Patrick knows it’s pained.

“I can at least show you the quickest way,” Pete says, holding out his hand. Against all logic and rational thought, Patrick takes it. “Come on, then. You’ll get used to the light the further we go.”

They walk for a few moments together, their hands swinging between them with each step. Though Pete seems comfortable in the silence, Patrick decides to break it before he does something stupid like asking if Pete wants a kiss in exchange for this, too.

“Why do you keep helping me?” He asks instead. “Why do you care so much?”

There are a dozen answers Patrick expects to hear. Pete doesn’t offer any of them.

“During your first task, Bebe sent me to watch you. To make sure you didn’t try to run away,” he says after a small pause, steps slowing as he speaks. “Of course, she had to be sure I wouldn’t run off, either. She bound me and sent me after you. I imagine it was amusing for her.”

Patrick’s eyebrows furrow together. “I don’t understand. What does—”

“Along your way,” Pete continues, covering Patrick’s question, “you stopped to help a bird. You were gentle and didn’t hesitate to offer aid, though you had your own task to attend to. It wasn’t anything monumental or heroic but… It was the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time.”

“Oh.” Patrick looks now, really looks, at the feathers clinging to Pete’s skin and how perfectly in place they are, how at home they seem. He looks at his eyes and, though Pete’s not looking at him, he sees the same curiosity he once noted in a bird’s soft gaze. Magic and Pete; for once, the pair makes sense. “Oh.”

“You have a good heart, Patrick,” Pete says. “At first, I asked Bebe to spare you because I couldn’t stand your fear. Now, though? I can’t stand the thought of the world losing someone like you.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“This is as far as I can go,” Pete says suddenly, stopping short and pulling Patrick back with him. He looks somewhat ridiculous, eyes wide and cheeks pink, but Patrick’s heart leaps into his throat anyway. “I’m not fully magic but I’ve been around Bebe long enough that Rexha will sense something off.”

“That makes sense.” It would also make sense for them to drop hands but Patrick merely holds on tighter as he turns to face Pete. “I’ll be alright, okay? I’ll run in and grab what Bebe wants and then I’ll run all the way back here.”

Pete laughs. “You better run all the way back to Bebe if you want to survive. Speaking of which, I think you should give me a kiss, now.”

“Why?” Patrick asks, though a grin betrays him. “Will it help me?”

“No,” Pete admits, smile wavering. “But it will give me a chance to kiss you before you die.”

“Hey, don’t say that,” Patrick says, his own smile fading. His heart thrums like a river in his chest, chasing emotion through his veins in hot and cold flashes. His head fills with Pete’s words; his eyes land on Pete’s eyes. Before he can think of why it’s a bad idea, he leans forward and presses his lips to Pete’s cheek. “I’m not going to die.”

When he pulls back, Pete’s a shade pinker than before and Patrick can’t help but smile. Here, in the bone-white land of Rexha’s rule, Patrick feels no doubt. Though life has been pulled from everything he sees in the world before him, Patrick feels his heart pounding more certainly than it ever has before. 

He pulls away from Pete with no more words, cold collecting on his palm as their hands fall apart. And, with a steady breath, Patrick continues down the path with the thought of Pete fresh in his mind.

One more turn. One more stretch of pale dirt and white trees. The witch’s home appears too quickly for Patrick’s liking and he pauses before the iron gates. Unlike Bebe’s decrepit castle, Rexha’s lair is little more than a hole dug into the mountainside. It disappears into a darkness Patrick’s never seen, a darkness so thick he can feel it leaking out. His breath stutters in his throat but, still, he grabs one of the bars.

_ Splash _

Patrick jumps back at the sudden sound, a soft cry leaving his lips as he nearly falls backward. He stares, breaths desperate and eyes wide, and then turns when he hears the sound again.

_ Splash _

Against his better judgment, he follows the noise to an open area with a young girl reaching into a well. Patrick pauses and watches her, her sunny orange hair captivating him as, again and again, she splashes the water with a bucket grasped tightly in her hand.

“Come on,” she whines, voice breaking on the edge of sobbing. “Come  _ on _ .”

Something about the tone of her voice, the desperation or the sorrow, strikes Patrick in the chest. He clears his throat, revealing himself. 

The girl turns and lifts the empty bucket as if to throw it, no sign of the sadness Patrick heard showing in her fiery eyes.

“Who are you?” She snaps. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” Patrick says, hands lifted to show he means no harm. “I was just- I’m- It’s- Okay, wait, are you Rexha?”

Impossibly so, the girl’s eyes harden further.

“No, I’m Hayley. I work for Rexha— against my will and everything.” She drops the bucket, eyebrows knitting together as she glances over Patrick. “Bebe sent you, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Patrick says, blinking. “How did you—”

“Bebe always sends her people here when she’s sick of them. She knows it’s the most reliable way to make sure they die,” Hayley says, sitting on the edge of the well. She kicks the ground and winces when she looks back at Patrick’s stunned expression. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I guess,” Patrick says with uncertainty, walking toward Hayley and lifting the bucket before sitting next to her. He glances down into the water, frowning when he sees how low it is. No wonder Hayley was frustrated; there’s no wait to fill the bucket without falling in.

“Rexha told me to bring water in before she returns,” Hayley says, following his gaze. Her voice drops and she looks away. “I think she’s getting tired of me, too.”

Though Patrick doesn’t know Hayley’s story or what Rexha may do when she returns, his stomach grows cold with fear. How many witches have tricked their captives into impossible tasks such as his? How many other innocents have fallen victim?

“You’re going to be alright,” Patrick says, standing and searching in his pocket. Hayley watches with a small frown as Patrick victoriously produces the chain he’d taken from Pete, the chain he’d taken from that bird. It’s heavier in his hands now, hotter and somehow sharper now that he knows it was Pete he saved, but he pushes away those thoughts as he wraps it around the bucket’s handle, biting his tongue as he ties it tight. He gives it one last tug and, then, satisfied, he presents it to Hayley.

“You’re crazy,” she says but there’s a small smirk in the corner of her lips. Despite what she’s said, she, too, stands and then leans over the well, holding onto the chain and dropping the bucket in. 

It hits the water with a resounding splash, sinking beneath the surface for a moment before bobbing back up. Hayley’s eyes widen and her lips part in a delighted gasp that comes back out in the shape of sparkling laughter.

“The task was supposed to be impossible. She locked me outside and there’s nothing out here but the bucket,” she says, glancing at Patrick. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m actually just happy I was able to help,” Patrick says, thinking back to his own tasks with warmth in his chest. If he hadn’t had help then… “Speaking of impossible things—”

“You’ll find it hidden in the fireplace,” Hayley says as she tugs the bucket back up. “Bebe sent you for Rexha’s anti-magic caster, right? She hides it in the fireplace.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Patrick says though a chill goes through his spine at the thought of going into the witch’s cave. “Wish me luck.”

“I’ll do you one better.” Hayley pulls a small cup from her apron and, after filling it with water from the bucket, offers it to Patrick. “The well’s connected to some magic river so the water, apparently, is as good as a meal. Rexha has a guard dog behind the gate and she starves it to inspire more vicious attacks. Give him this and he should leave you alone.”

Patrick takes the cup, a smile fitting easily on his face. “Thank you.”

Hayley doesn’t say any more but her smile and bright eyes are more than enough encouragement. With the cup in his hand, Patrick returns to the front gate. It’s not obvious there’s some sort of pet inside but, now, peering through the bars, Patrick can make out the shadows forming a body within the darkness.

The wolf, grey as fear and big as panic, turns with fluid movements when Patrick breathes, yellow eyes burning through the gate to land on him. It stalks forward with heavy steps, snarling and panting until it stands before Patrick, it’s full size more enormous than Patrick could have prepared for. Black lips curl back to show fangs as long as a blade and as sharp as Patrick’s breath when a growl rumbles deep and steady from the back of the creature’s throat.

Trembling and half expecting an attack, Patrick fits his hand and the cup through the bars.

“H-hey there,” he says, keeping eye contact with the burning embers before him. “I heard you’re hungry. This should help.”

He doesn’t know if the wolf understands him or if he’s simply imagining the narrowed eyes but, either way, the wolf dips its head towards the water. It sniffs, more gently than Patrick might have predicted, and then pokes the tip of its tongue in.

All it takes is that one taste before it’s happily lapping up the water with enough intensity Patrick yelps and has to fight not to pull his hand back, the wolf’s breath hot on his wrist and its teeth too close for comfort. For a few minutes, Patrick’s accompanied only by the frantic drinking of the wolf and the steady release of tension from his own nerves. By the time the cup is empty, Patrick’s smiling at the wolf as if it’s no more harmful than a mere puppy.

“There,” Patrick says, as he pulls his arm back and opens the gate. “I’m sure you feel much better now.”

As if to prove Patrick’s words, the wolf wags its tail and nudges Patrick with its nose as Patrick finally steps inside, earning a good scratch behind its ears. Patrick pats the wolf one last time before it curls up against the wall, ready for sleep as Patrick ventures further into the lair.

He finds, however, the home is more labyrinth than cave and, though the walls glisten with their eerie white sheen, Patrick feels as if he’s suddenly been thrust into the dark. Pathways extend before him endlessly, each one branching into another or curving into a dead end. Though he’s not as afraid as he’d been before— knowing the wolf likes him has eased most his anxieties— his heart still pounds as he tries to figure out which path to take. He starts for the first of the three before him for no better reason than it being the first. He holds his breath as he walks through, palms sweating as he’s led deeper into the cave.

He’s reaching a fork in the corridors when, in the distance, the soft sound of sobbing reaches his ears. He pauses, listening as the crying grows louder. It’s a hiccupping sound, young and pained, and Patrick’s heart hurts when he hears it. He takes a step towards the noise and then immediately steps back again, biting his lip in indecision. What if it’s a trap meant to keep him lost in the cave? What if he’s hearing things? What if it wastes too much time or what if it’s too dangerous? Why should he be willing to take that chance?

Somehow, amidst these thoughts, he takes a step forward.

Maybe he owes it to help this person because he likes to consider himself good and kind.

Another step forward.

Maybe because he’d want someone to help him.

Another step.

Maybe because someone already has.

Patrick thinks of Pete as he hurries down the hall, the walls growing higher as he nears the center of the mountain. He thinks of Pete and the help he’s given, the risks he’s taken by going behind Bebe’s back. He thinks of his pretty words and soothing voice, the way he asks for a kiss but still aids Patrick when it’s not received. He thinks of the fear he saw in Pete’s eyes the last time they spoke. He thinks of how he promised Pete he would return alive and he wishes he had promised more— happiness, freedom, that kiss he always seems to require.

Those should have been Patrick’s three tasks. He’d give Pete those and more if meant he could return the help he’s been granted.

At last, Patrick emerges into a large room with a fire burning in the center of it. Smoke of every color fills the area before circling up into an opening at the top, obscuring Patrick’s vision and making it hard to breathe. He chokes as he steps forward, narrowly missing the boy kneeling on the floor.

“I'm sorry!” The boy shouts, pulling back with his hands— cut and burnt— close to his chest. “I'm sorry.” 

“Hey, it's okay,” Patrick says as he kneels before the boy, repeating the phrase until the boy is calm. “I'm sorry I scared you. What's your name? What are you doing on the floor?” 

The boy hesitates, looking at Patrick with wary eyes. He seems only a few years younger than Patrick— too old to be called a child but far too young to be stuck in a place like this. Blond hair gone brown from the smoke and ash falls into his face in choppy waves. His hands shake, pale and thin, and his eyes seem just on the verge of tears

Is this how Pete was?  Young and breaking, stuck and sentenced to nothing but this captivity? Patrick blinks and he can see that Pete now, before the magic and markings on his skin. He to be small, scrawny, and rubbing at his face to dry helpless tears, frowning stubbornly even as his bottom lip juts in a pout. Lost and alone, just like this boy.

“I'm Will,”  he says at last. “ I broke some of Rexha’s things by accident. I'm supposed to clean it up.”  He opens his hands, showing shards of glass collected in his palms. “ I don't know where to put it.”

Patrick frowns. “ You can't throw it out or set it down?”

Will shakes his head. “I'm not allowed to touch anything else until she gets back.”

Patrick's frown deepens. Not an impossible task but a cruel one.

“Here,”  he says, holding his hands out. “I can take it.”

“No!” Will says, closing his hands and pressing the glass deeper into his skin. “She'll want to see it. I'll get in trouble if it's gone.”

“ Well,” Patrick says, try not to scare the boy into hurting himself further. “How about this? The girl outside gave me a cup. We can put the glass in there so it won’t cut you anymore.”

Again, Will hesitates even as Patrick sets the cup down and holds his hand out.

“I won’t get in trouble?” He asks. Patrick smiles as kindly as he can.

“I won’t let you.” 

Will nods and passes the glass to Patrick with shaking hands, watching with wide eyes as each shard falls from his palms. The glass is sharper than it looks and Patrick gasps as edges cut into his skin, drawing small dots and lines of blood. Will looks up, alarmed, but Patrick cuts off his apology with a shake of his head and begins dropping the glass into Hayley’s cup.

“See?” Patrick says as the last piece is dropped in. “All clean and you didn’t need to break any rules.”

Will smiles, real and bright. “You’re right. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Patrick wipes his hands on his pants, wincing when it irritates the new cuts. “Hey, is that the fireplace behind you?”

Will follows Patrick’s gaze to the fire and nods, smile falling.

“You’re here for Rexha’s magic, aren’t you?” He asks.

Patrick shrugs. “Bebe told me to take the thing that casts Rexha’s spell. I’m assuming she’s charmed something or—”

“No, it’s her magic,” Will says. “The spell she wanted to cast was too big so she sacrificed her magic to make certain no one else could use theirs when they’re here. She can only use her magic when it’s in the center of her home. It’s supposed to be some heart metaphor but, really, I think she just thinks it’s cool to keep it in the fire.”

Patrick grins at Will’s joke and they stand, facing the fire together. “So, if I take it…”

“Then you take Rexha’s power,” Will says. “She won’t be able to trap us here anymore.”

And that is as good as any reason to take this.

Patrick and Will near the flames, heat reaching out and stroking their skin with harsh caresses. Patrick recoils from it but carries on, eyes squinted against the smoke coming his way.

“What is it?” He asks, hoping for Will to point out something simple.

Will, of course, points instead at one of the pieces of coal— one burning more brightly than the rest. It hurts to look at, the red light leaving an imprint on Patrick’s eyes as he blinks, and, he imagines, it’ll be worse to grab. 

“She’ll be back soon,” Will says after a moment, looking nervously at the entrance to the room. “I understand if you don’t want to grab it. No one else has done it before. I’ll show you the way out before she comes, if you want.”

“No,” Patrick says before Will’s even halfway through his last offer. He steps closer to the fire, heat covering him; it only serves to draw him closer. “I need to do this.”

Every other task, Pete’s done for him and Patrick’s grateful but he also recognizes how unfair that is. Hayley and Will don’t have anyone but each other to rely on— and, perhaps, the wolf sleeping by the gate. Patrick’s been lucky enough that Pete likes him but where would he be if Pete hadn’t shown up? Stuck at the bottom of a cliff? Locked away with nothing but pen and paper? Suffering not only from his captivity but from his loneliness?

Patrick needs to do this. Not only to earn his freedom but, instead, to prove to himself that he deserves his freedom, at all.

He kneels as Will gasps. Ash collects on his trousers and smoke stings his eyes but he keeps his sight on the coal gleaming before him. He has nothing left to aid him— no chains taken from birds or gifts given from strangers he’s met. Only him and the clothes on his back; only him and the certainty that this is something he can do.

With no hesitation, with no fear, he sticks his hand into the fire. 

Flames gather around his wrist and palm, excitedly latching onto his skin with a heat that has him seeing black, teeth clamping down on his tongue until he tastes blood. Will calls out to him, tells him to pull back, but Patrick can’t hear him over the panicked pace of his pulse in his ears. His hand shudders and the horrible smell of burning flesh fills the air.

“You’ll kill yourself,” Will cries as the flames travel further up Patrick’s arm. “It’s alright if you don’t get it, just pull your arm back!”

Patrick grits his teeth and forces his eyes open. 

He can do this. Pete had said Rexha would kill him. He never said anything about the task itself.

With a breath that tastes like iron and choked off screams, Patrick grabs the coal and finally allows himself to fall backward. Again, dark overtakes his vision but this time it’s relief as he shuts his eyes and breathes deeply. He falls onto his back, chest heaving. Will falls to his knees beside him, worrying over his burned arm as Patrick simply relishes in the feeling of the coal in his hand. It’s warm and weighty, small enough to fit in his fist as he pulls his hand to his chest. He did it.  _ He did it _ .

The coal grows cold but not in any way Patrick understands, the sensation cooling his palm and hand, traveling like fire up his arm to his shoulder. At first, Patrick assumes he’s imagining it to cope with the horrible burns up his arm. But then Will gasps, small and wondrous, and Patrick opens his eyes, sitting up to glance at what’s going on.

A blue-white light, thin and delicate, surrounds his arm and, before Patrick’s eyes, his skin heals. Burns fade into scars and the heat’s replaced by a gentle brush of wind. It takes no more than a few breaths and, then, the magic evaporates.

Patrick smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Will asks, frowning at Patrick’s expression. “It fixed you, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but with Rexha’s magic,” Patrick says. “If the witches can do this then why be so evil? Why not use it for good?”

“Because there’s nothing fun about that.”

The voice strikes through the room and the smoke clears as if parting a way for the sound. It’s almost familiar, almost Bebe’s teasing tone, but this voice carries more threat to it. Patrick turns, shoving himself to his feet, and takes in the sight of Rexha.

She’s like Bebe with her smirk and dark eyes but, like her kingdom, she’s pale in the places Bebe is a shadow. Her hair’s cut short and flashes with a brilliant light like gems reflecting the sun. A white dress clings to her skin, jewels of impossible sizes hanging from her neck and wrists. She walks forward, hands on her hips, and holds a hand out to Patrick.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” she says in a voice so simple it shakes Patrick to his core. He steps back, fist tightening around the coal. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, continuing to step away. “But I need it right now.”

Rexha’s eyes harden. “You will regret denying my mercy. Will bring the coal to me.”

Will looks to Patrick, almost as if he’s contemplating his new command. His eyes dart to the fire and then back at Rexha and Patrick remembers his words— Rexha has no magic if the coal is not in the fire.

“Will,” Rexha snaps. “I told you to take it.”

“I’m sorry,” Will says, holding his hands out. “My hands are too cut up to do anything else.” 

Rexha’s eyes flash white and Patrick doesn’t wait to see if anything happens. He turns and he runs.

Rexha’s voice follows him down the hall he’s chosen and he trips over his feet more than once, heart pounding in his chest as he shoves himself back up. He takes twists and turns he knows he didn’t take before, praying for help, praying for guidance.

He stops short when a shadow greets him at the end of one hall, a rumbling growl echoing around him.

“Attack him,” Rexha’s voice calls from some unseen place, an echoing boom that causes Patrick’s bones to ache. “Tear him to shreds.”

The wolf watches Patrick, eyes bright and fangs bared, and then it turns and runs the other direction. 

With a smile growing on his lips, Patrick follows. Rexha’s betrayed shriek chases after him. 

It’s not long until they reach the gate once more, the wolf looking back at Patrick with something that can almost be a smile as Patrick fumbles to get the gate open. His hands shake and he can barely see from how light-headed he’s become but, somehow, the gate swings away from him and he rushes outside. 

He keeps running, legs aching, until he sees Hayley again by the well.

“Hayley!” Rexha calls and the girl turns her head to where Rexha’s standing by the gate with wild eyes and a finger pointed in Patrick’s direction. “Catch him!”

Hayley looks at Patrick and her eyes drop to the coal in his hand. The smile she offered him before returns with twice the joy, twice the mirth.

“No,” she says. “Catch him yourself.”

Patrick smiles back at her as Rexha screams. Hayley nods back and, then, points for Patrick to continue running.

Patrick does.

He doesn’t know if Rexha follows, too afraid to look back, but he does know that he has her magic and, so, he has the upper hand. More importantly, he’s completed the third task and he’s coming back to Pete alive.

“Pete!” He calls as he runs further down the path he came, legs burning beneath him but carrying him all the same. “Pete, I did it!”

Rexha’s voice is the only answer, a horrifying shriek, and Patrick’s smile falters.

“Pete!” He calls again. “Pete, come see!”

No response.

Patrick frowns at himself as he nears the edge of Rexha’s land, the other side terribly empty. Did he imagine Pete would be waiting with open arms? Did he imagine he’d be proud? That he’d show up with a smile to claim the kiss he always wants?

Patrick has no time to pity himself for such thoughts now.

With Rexha behind him and Bebe before him, Patrick simply runs.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“Hello?” Patrick calls out as he re-enters Bebe’s castle, wandering into the throne room. “Bebe? I have what you asked for.”

“Hello.” Bebe appears out of nowhere, out of shadows, and, after Rexha’s brilliance, the darkness is a comforting sight. Bebe towers over Patrick, eyes cold and tense as she looks at the coal held in his hand. “You’ve completed this task? You’re sure?”

“Look,” Patrick says, holding the coal out to her. Though it’s cooled, it still burns red with multicolored smoke pulling away from it. “It’s Rexha’s magic, I’m certain.”

Bebe’s eyes fall from Patrick and to the coal and back up, her frown fighting against a smirk.

“You weren’t supposed to be able to do that,” she says, hands twitching at her side. “The task was meant to be impossible.”

“Yes, I heard people who go to Rexha’s lair are often killed,” Patrick says, smiling to himself. “But I suppose that fate favored me today.”

Bebe presses her lips together into a thin line before scoffing. “So it would seem.”

She reaches for the coal but Patrick shuts his hand and pulls away, flinching when Bebe’s eyes flash with flame.

“Before I give it to you, I’d like you to promise that this was my last task,” he says. “Am I free to go?”

Again, Bebe’s emotions show on her face with her frustration finally giving into resignation.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she says. She waves her hand and murmurs words Patrick can’t understand. Nothing happens but she sighs at the end, gesturing to the door. “You’ll be able to leave my realm now. Leave and walk and don’t stop until you reach the tree once more. You’ll have my blessing to take fruit. Once you bite into it, you will be sent back home.”

Patrick nods, setting his hand down on the arm of the throne, fist still sealed around the coal. He knows he should leave, should take this chance before it’s stolen away, but something more lingers on the tip of his tongue.

“And… And Pete?” He asks hesitantly, staring at his own scarred knuckles. “I’d like to thank him for convincing you to allow me this chance.”

Bebe’s smile takes on a happier edge, glinting with malice as she laughs to herself.

“Do you think I didn’t notice him helping you?” She asks. “Did you both believe I would be so blind?”

Even with the coal in his hand, Patrick suddenly feels cold and numb. “I don’t—”

“Pete’s always had a soft spot for those that I test but I must say that you were the first he actually seemed to care for,” Bebe continues. “So while a farewell would be touching, I’m afraid it can’t be allowed.”

“I don’t understand,” Patrick tries again, words shaking and unsure. “Where’s Pete? What are you doing to him?”

“Oh?” Bebe asks, eyes lighting up with dark amusement. “What, you care for him, too?” 

Patrick doesn’t answer her question. “I asked what you’re doing to him.”

“Nothing extreme,” Bebe says, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s locked away for now but he’s alive. I’ve concocted a new impossible task for him to complete. It’s only fair, seeing how happy he was to complete yours.”

Blood drains from Patrick’s face and he grows dizzy, leaning against the throne for support as he knees become weak. 

“Let me do the task,” Patrick says. “I was the one who cheated on my three so I should be the one to do this task.”

“I’m sorry,” Bebe says. “But I’ve already had just a bit too much of you.”

Patrick prepares another argument, something to save Pete the way Pete saved him, but he’s drowned out by the sound of thumping further down the hall— the sound of someone trying to shove a locked door open.

Bebe looks down towards the noise with a frown.

“You’d expect him to know my doors never open,” she says before looking back to Patrick, smile traded for something more serious. “Go, before I reclaim my mercy. Don’t let me see you here again.”

And, with that, Bebe turns and hurries down the halls. Down to Pete.

The exit beckons to Patrick with streams of daylight lingering in the cracks. It calls to him with the promise of the freedom he now has, the home he can return to. He can leave but neither his mind or body seems to understand.

He’s to leave Pete alone to a witch who wishes to punish him for doing nothing more than aiding Patrick? He’s to leave Pete alone with nothing more than a chaste kiss on the cheek? Patrick’s lips sting from the reminder, tingling from the thought of what he’d done. Again, he wishes he’d done more.

For the first time, he realizes he can.

Bebe had left for Pete, gloating and threatening Patrick. She’d hurried, shadows clinging to her as she walked away, and she’d forgotten about what she asked Patrick to bring.

She’d forgotten about the magic.

Patrick doesn’t dare let himself smile as he looks down at his fist, still resting on the throne’s arm. Slowly, he turns his hand over; even slower, he uncurls his fingers to peer inside.

The coal gazes back up at him, as promising as it’s always been. 

But the coal isn’t the promise Patrick wants to fulfill. He’d given Pete his kiss, a joking peck on the cheek, but he knows there’s something more waiting for them.

This time, it’s his turn to help Pete. And maybe, then, Pete will have a kiss for him.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Outside and circling Bebe’s castle, it takes twice as long as it should to find the room Pete’s locked in yet still manages to feel like no time at all.

“He’s already left.” Bebe’s voice carries out from a hole in the castle wall, a crack between crumbling stones no bigger a piece of coal. A huffed breath follows her words and, though Patrick can’t see inside, he knows the sound comes from Pete.

“Then he’s safe. Good,” Pete says. “I don’t care about anything more than that.”

“Not even your own life?” Bebe asks. Pete doesn’t respond, though Patrick’s heart beats loud enough he’s certain Bebe must hear. “Very well. I’ll present you with a challenge. If you succeed, all will be forgiven. If not, you’ll no longer be of use to me and your life is mine. Do you accept?”

“Do I have a choice?” Pete asks. Bebe laughs.

“Outside, I’ve called for three of my birds to cry out. None of them is the same color,” Bebe explains, causing Patrick to turn and search for the birds she means. He spots them in a tree further off— blue, yellow, black. “After each cry, you will tell me what color the bird was. Answer all three correctly or you fail.”

When Pete speaks, Patrick imagines he can see his tired smirk. “So a truly impossible task this time. That’s fine. Go ahead, let’s have your test.”

Pete’s tone is too resigned, too disheartened for Patrick to feel anything other than fear when Bebe calls out one of her spells, an ancient word that has the yellow bird flying from the branch with a light song leaving its throat.

Patrick presses against the wall, clinging to the small hole before him as Bebe taunts Pete, asking what color the bird was. Pete doesn’t answer but Patrick, eyes shut and wishing on every kiss he should have given, presses his lips to the stone and whispers, “yellow.”

There’s silence, the kind of silence that’s shared between two people having the same thought, having the same breath in their lungs waiting to be released. Patrick holds onto his breath, nails digging into brick and dust.

At last, Pete speaks. “Yellow.”

Bebe’s breath is stunned and sharp and Patrick imagines that it hurts for her to suck it in. She doesn’t say anything other than to cast her next spell.

Patrick’s eyes fly open and he twists his head in time to see the bluebird lift from its perch with a noise just like the first.

“Blue,” he whispers, turning back to face the wall. “Blue.”

Pete repeats him, a smile weaving through his words.

“That’s impossible,” Bebe hisses, her voice trembling with rage. “How are you—”

“Do you want to give up?” Pete asks, barely restraining his mirth. Patrick warms at the sound, the satisfaction of knowing Bebe’s beat thrumming through his veins. Is this how Pete felt when he helped Patrick? Is this how he felt when he discovered Patrick was safe?

Bebe calls out for the last bird as Patrick’s last thought sinks in. Pete knew Patrick would be safe; his three tasks were for his freedom.

But what of Pete? What does he get from surviving this? Back to Bebe’s rule, to a life of servitude?

“Well?” Bebe asks. “Do you know the color, Pete?”

“I—”

Pete’s waiting, hesitating, and Patrick can feel his panic and fear as easily as if it were his own. The answer rests on Patrick’s lip like a kiss he’s yet to give and, as he thinks it, he knows what he has to do.

“The last bird flew away,” he whispers through the wall. He brings the coal to his lips, kissing it with a tender touch. “It’s you.”

And he shoves the coal through the crack.

At first, there’s no sign that the plan works.

But then he hears Pete laugh. He hears Bebe scream.

Birds cry out and fly away.

The world explodes into the most impossible mix of dark and light, and Patrick smiles through it all.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s eyes open.

He shoves himself to his feet and looks around, rubbing his head. He doesn’t notice the dark or the lateness of the hour or the side of the castle now left as debris. He doesn’t notice his own aches or pains.

He only notices Pete.

“You’re okay!” Pete says, obscenely loud. Patrick jumps at the sound but smiles at Pete crossing the rubble to him. Pete takes his hands with a gentle grin and Patrick lets him, laughing to himself.

“Yeah, I told you I wouldn’t die,” he says, his insides melting as Pete runs his thumb over Patrick’s knuckles, frowning at the burn scars he finds there. Patrick distracts him by squeezing his hands, tugging until Pete looks back up. “And look at you. You’re okay, too.”

“Because of you,” Pete laughs, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Patrick’s. It’s nice, nicer than Patrick thought it might be. He shuts his eyes as Pete speaks, sinking into everything that is simply them until he doesn’t know where his soul starts or ends. “You’re impossible, Patrick. Do you know what you did?”

Patrick cracks his eyes open, grinning sharply at Pete. “Save your life, I’m hoping.”

Pete laughs again, tightening his hold on Patrick’s hands.

“Rexha’s magic… It’s mine now. You gave me the magic and I was strong enough to break Bebe’s hold on me. I’m  _ free _ ,” he says. “And Bebe… she knows that I’m more powerful than even her, now. She left. I don’t think she’ll be coming back.”

“So I did save you?” Patrick asks in his careful, listening to Pete’s breaths and pulling away to look in his eyes.

Pete nods. “You saved me.”

Patrick’s smile bursts on his face like the sun over a cliff, like words on a page, like magic he can call his own.

“Then I guess you owe me a kiss.”

Pete’s smile is everything and more when he leans forward.

“I guess I do,” he says, his words breathless as he moves his hands to Patrick’s hair, cradling his head with a tenderness that has Patrick feeling dizzy. 

When their lips meet, Patrick forgets about witches and bullies and every task he’s done. He doesn’t think of the past few days or what is to come. 

He simply thinks of impossible things. True love and men with magic; saving lives and happily ever after.

He thinks of Pete and of everything life hasn’t shown them yet— their future together, their lives now that they’ve found one another with no will to let go.

He thinks of impossible things.

And he believes in every one.


End file.
